Too Late For Regret: My Cold Husband's Tears

Frederica stared up at the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the Tribeca penthouse. It was a cold, jagged thing, much like the man currently washing her scent off his body in the adjacent bathroom. The water running in the shower was a steady, rhythmic roar that filled the silence of the master bedroom. Her body ached. It was a dull, throbbing reminder of the last hour, a physical testament to an act that felt less like love and more like a hostile takeover.

She sat up, wincing as the movement pulled at her sore muscles. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the shock of the cold carpet. It grounded her. She needed that coldness. She walked to the walk-in closet, bypassing the rows of designer clothes Easton insisted she wear to the functions he deemed important-a gilded uniform she refused to touch otherwise. In her own life, the one no one here knew about, she preferred anonymity. She knelt before the hidden wall safe.

Her fingers moved automatically over the keypad. Beep. Beep. Beep. The mechanical click of the lock disengaging sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Frederica reached inside and pulled out a thick manila envelope. The wax seal of her attorney was unbroken. She held it for a moment, the paper heavy in her hands. It weighed more than the diamond on her finger. It weighed four years of her life.

The bathroom door opened. A cloud of steam rolled out, followed by Easton Reilly. He wore only a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle that she had been clinging to minutes ago. He didn't look at her. He walked straight past her to the island in the center of the closet, his attention already on the rows of crisp white dress shirts.

It was as if she were a piece of furniture. A nightstand he had used and was now done with.

Frederica took a breath that rattled in her chest. She walked over to the black marble island and slammed the envelope down.

The sound was a flat, dead thud.

Easton paused. His hand hovered over a slate-grey shirt. He didn't turn around immediately. He finished selecting the shirt, pulled it from the hanger, and then slowly pivoted to face her. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, swept over the envelope without a flicker of emotion. He arched a brow, a silent demand for an explanation he clearly felt he didn't owe her.

"Easton, I am terminating the partnership," Frederica said. Her voice was scratchy, unused, but the words were precise.

A short, sharp laugh escaped him. It wasn't a happy sound. He reached out and picked up the envelope with the same casual indifference he used for his morning financial briefings. He slid the documents out. His eyes scanned the header.

Dissolution of Marriage.

He tossed the papers back onto the marble. They fanned out, messy and chaotic against the pristine surface.

"You are bluffing, Miss Mccullough," Easton said. His voice was smooth, deep, and utterly dismissive. "Your current valuation depends entirely on me. You walk away, you crash."

Frederica curled her hands into fists at her sides. Her nails dug into her palms, creating crescent moon indentations that stung.

"This is irrevocable, Easton. I filed the intent this morning."

He moved then. He closed the distance between them in two long strides. The air in the closet seemed to vanish, sucked into the vacuum of his presence. He towered over her, radiating heat and intimidation. He reached out, his fingers gripping her chin, tilting her face up. His touch was firm, bordering on painful.

He lowered his head until his lips were inches from her ear. She could feel the warmth of his breath, a stark contrast to the ice in his tone.

"You do not leave this room without my permission, let alone this marriage."

The vibration of a phone against the marble surface shattered the moment.

Easton froze. He released her chin abruptly, his attention snapping to the device on the island. The screen lit up.

S. Sinclair.

Frederica saw the name. It hit her harder than his grip had. The air left her lungs. The little flame of defiance she had nurtured all morning flickered and died, replaced by a familiar, suffocating darkness.

Easton picked up the phone. His demeanor shifted instantly. The cold tyrant vanished, replaced by a man capable of concern.

"Simone, what is it?" he asked.

Frederica could hear the tinny, frantic sounds of a woman crying on the other end. The background noise was chaotic, like a crowd or a street.

Easton's brow furrowed. He turned his back on Frederica, grabbing his suit jacket with his free hand.

"Stay right there," he said into the phone, his voice dropping an octave, soothing and urgent. "Do not move. I am coming to get you."

Frederica stood there, naked and shivering, watching her husband dress with frantic efficiency for another woman. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab his arm and demand he look at the divorce papers, look at her. But her throat felt like it was filled with cement.

Easton strode toward the door. He passed within inches of her but didn't even blink. He didn't see her. He never really saw her.

The front door of the apartment slammed shut seconds later. The vibration traveled through the floorboards and up her legs.

Frederica's knees gave out. She sank onto the plush carpet of the closet, surrounded by his expensive suits and the smell of his cologne. Her eyes fell on the scattered papers. Dissolution of Marriage. It looked like a joke now.

She let out a dry, humorless laugh that turned into a sob. She reached for the papers, gathering them up with trembling hands. The despair in her chest began to harden, calcifying into something cold and sharp.

She reached for her own phone. Her fingers shook as she dialed.

"Chloe," she said when the line connected. Her voice was dead calm. "He took the bait. Initiate Plan B. The gallery tonight. It's happening."